


Bespectacled

by santana-lopez (nightshifted)



Category: Glee
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-21
Updated: 2011-10-21
Packaged: 2017-10-24 20:05:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,392
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/267344
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nightshifted/pseuds/santana-lopez
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Santana is in the fourth grade when the chalk lines across the blackboard start getting fuzzy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bespectacled

Santana is in the fourth grade when the chalk lines across the blackboard start getting fuzzy.

At first, she just made her eyes real squinty, and that helped, but as it started getting worse, until even her wholly unobservant best friend begins to notice.

"You're making funny faces a lot," Brittany points out one day, reaching over to jab Santana's cheek with her index finger.

Santana pulls away. "No'm not," she huffs.

"Yeah you are," Brittany insists. "Your eyes are like this."

Brittany spends the next fifteen minutes pulling her eyes into a straight line to demonstrate, and Santana spends those fifteen minutes ignoring her.

\--

It takes another week of squinting before Santana's mother takes her to the ophthalmologist and gets her fitted with a pair of frames. Santana hates them.

"I _hate_ them," Santana groans, roughly tugging her new glasses off her face as she plops down onto the couch. "I hate them, hate them, hate them. They make me look like a nerd."

"I like them," Brittany remarks, taking the glasses from Santana and pulling them over her own eyes. Immediately, she falls back against the couch and clutches her head. "Whoa, trippy."

"Gimme that," Santana grunts, grabbing her glasses off Brittany's face and hooking them back over her own ears. She frowns. "They're ugly."

Brittany sidles up to Santana and leans her temple against Santana's shoulder. "You could never be ugly," she breathes out. "That's a para-paraducks."

"Paradox, Britt," Santana corrects gently, squirming against the heat of Brittany's skin, "and no. These are hideous."

Brittany runs her palm up along Santana's jaw, the tips of her fingers pushing against Santana's glasses. "I like them," she repeats softly. "I want glasses too."

"No you don't," Santana refutes, already imagining all the trouble her scatterbrained best friend could get into if she had poor eyesight and needed to look after a pair of glasses.

Brittany pouts. "But then we could match…"

"We've got other stuff that match, okay? We don't need to both look like super dweebs."

Brittany lifts her head and chews thoughtfully on her lip for a moment. "Like what?" she asks, looking Santana up and down.

Truth be told, the two girls are nothing alike, both physically and otherwise. Santana, dark-skinned and hot-tempered, and Brittany, pale as a clear moon and unapologetically affectionate, have very few features in common. So when Brittany asks the question, Santana doesn't even know how to reply. They don't match. Not really, and yet…

Santana's pinky hooks around Brittany's, and she squeezes. "We match," she finally says with a shrug. "We just do, all right? We don't need some stupid glasses."

Placated, Brittany leans back down against Santana's shoulder. "Okay." She tugs lightly at their twined pinkies. "We match."

\--

Santana is in the seventh grade when she gets contacts.

It's a bit of a _finally_ moment for her, because she's pretty sure the only person in her life who actually enjoys her glasses is Brittany. Which is something Santana is _never_ going to figure out.

"I don't like it," Brittany decides, her hands roaming Santana's face.

Santana shrugs, pushing Brittany's hands away. "Too bad. I look hotter without 'em."

"You look hot either way," Brittany grins, leaning close.

Santana's heart beats wildly in her ribcage. At twelve, she already knows too much about boys. Knows how to tease them, knows how to drive them crazy and get them to do her bidding. And she likes it. Likes the control, like the power, likes the feeling of skin pressing against skin. She hasn't gone all the way yet, but she's pretty sure she will soon.

But at twelve, she also has a best friend who likes to get affectionate with her, which is _fine_. It's fine except when the girl sits too close or touches too long or just exists in Santana's personal space with a bright smile and piercing blue eyes. Then Santana gets this weird tight feeling in her chest that she doesn't quite understand. Like now, with Brittany's face inches from hers, something feels _real_.

Brittany curls a finger around a few loose strands of Santana's hair. "Will you at least wear them sometimes?"

"Yeah, fine, whatever," Santana breathes out.

Brittany's lips curl into a satisfied smile. "Awesome."

\--

Santana does wear her glasses. Sometimes. Never in public or anything, but once in a while, if they're studying in her room or eating a quiet dinner together at her house, or if her contacts are really bugging her the hell out, she'll swap them for her frames.

Brittany really, really likes them. A lot.

Three weeks before Santana's sixteenth birthday, Brittany shows her exactly how much she likes them.

So their relationship turns sexual. Whatever. Brittany's totally hot and Santana likes sex, so it all works out. Except then Brittany cuddles up to her, touches the pad of her thumb to the bridge of Santana's nose where her glasses rest, and leaves a trail of gentle kisses along her jaw.

Kisses that are too gentle to just be fuck-buddy kisses. Puck never kisses like that, and Santana never feels anything but a distant ache between her legs when Puck kisses her. With Brittany, it's different. With Brittany, there's tenderness, and affection, and everything Santana does not want from her best friend. Not like this, anyway. Because fingers are just fingers, and a tongue is just an instrument of pleasure and occasionally sharp wit. Nothing more.

Brittany's fingertips trail burning paths down Santana's skin, heating her to the core. It's terrifying, but it's _good_. If there's one thing Santana knows, it's that Brittany doesn't know how to be anything else but _good_ to her.

\--

Santana is in the eleventh grade when she has to sing some dumbass duet to win a free meal at Breadstix, and she gets into the first _real_ fight with Brittany. About like, actual important stuff. It sucks.

It's so dumb, and she doesn't even win that voucher though she totally would have if Frankenteen and his midget girlfriend hadn't gone and screwed it up. Whatever. The point is, Santana's done being mad at Brittany the moment she realizes she misses sex and well, _Brittany_. It's not about being a lizard, or whatever stupid metaphor she'd used, and she kind of wishes she could just tell Brittany that.

Instead, she slips into the Pierce house with her spare key and into Brittany's room, and closes the door behind her. Brittany sits up on her bed.

"You're wearing your glasses," Brittany says quietly.

Santana nods, fighting the urge to touch her face self-consciously. "Yeah."

"Why?"

Santana shrugs. "I don't know." Her laughter is mirthless. "I—because you like them. I don't know."

Brittany watches her. "You never wear your glasses out."

"I know." Santana sighs and rolls her eyes, taking slow strides toward Brittany. "I'm not going to sing some stupid song with you or whatever, but I'm sorry, okay?"

Brittany moves her feet on the bed to make room for Santana. "Why?"

Santana takes a seat at the edge of Brittany's bed, feeling the mattress sink under her weight. "Why what?"

"Why are you sorry?" Brittany presses.

Santana sucks it a breath and crawls up the length of Brittany's body, settling her head against the crook of Brittany's neck. She waits one anxious moment for Brittany to push her away, and breathes a quiet sigh of relief when Brittany's arms slide around her midsection instead.

Brittany brushes the side of her hand against Santana's cheek. "Why are you sorry?" she tries again.

"I just am," Santana mutters stubbornly.

Brittany's fist wraps around Santana's glasses, and she pulls them away from Santana's face. Folding them carefully, she places the frames on her night table and turns to Santana. "Okay," she says simply.

Santana manages a smile. "Okay?"

The tip of Brittany's finger outlines where Santana's glasses should be. Instinctively, Santana shuts her eyes. She'd missed this; being touched the way only Brittany does: carefully, sweetly, lovingly, like she _matters_.

"I like your glasses," Brittany says softly.

"I'm still not wearing them to school or anything," Santana grumbles, turning to press her face against Brittany's neck.

Light kisses rain down on Santana's forehead. "I know."

Santana lets out a deep breath, and they remain together, quietly, legs loosely tangled, until one of them falls asleep. The other doesn't let go.

 

_fin_


End file.
